


Snow and Other Magic

by triggerlil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Harry Potter, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Christmas Presents, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Fantasy elements, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay Draco Malfoy, Gift Exchange, Gift Fic, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Artifacts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:35:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22148782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triggerlil/pseuds/triggerlil
Summary: Harry's first Christmas Eve Ball at Malfoy Manor; featuring awkward tea, tense gift exchanges, magical destiny, illustrious artifacts, and impeccable outfits, as everything spirals towards... something.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 36
Kudos: 303
Collections: A Very Drarry Secret Santa 2019





	Snow and Other Magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iamthatveryvvitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamthatveryvvitch/gifts).



> This is a gift for the very wonderful M! It's been so great getting to know you in GWBB, and I hope my gift is up to standard. xx
> 
> Thank you to my two amazing beta-readers: [GallifreyisBurning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyisBurning/) and [countingcr0ws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/countingcr0ws)  
> As well as two phenomenal alpha-readers: [pixiedustatsundown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixiedustatsundown/pseuds/pixiedustatsundown) and [MiriMora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiriMora/works)
> 
> Edit: Comissioned fanart from the LOVELY pan-da-hero [here!](https://pan-da-hero.tumblr.com/post/190775818022/commission-for-triggerlil-inspired-by-her-great)

“Pylades: I’ll take care of you.

Orestes: It’s rotten work.

Pylades: Not to me. Not if it’s you.”

― **Anne Carson, Euripides**

“In my dreams, I kill him every night,” Harry whispered into the half dark. He could just make out the curve of Draco’s pointed chin, the slope of his angular nose; laying there next to Harry in the large four-poster bed, the silk sheets tangled around their twisted legs.

Draco placed a hand on Harry’s cheek, his breath warm. 

“At least he dies.”

“Not always,” Harry muttered, taking Draco’s hand and kissing his palm. “Sometimes when I die the first time, I never come back.”

“Well, you’re here now,” Draco shuffled closer, “I won’t let you go anywhere.”

“I know, I know.”

“People always die in my dreams too. Sometimes it’s the both of us.”

“I won’t let that happen; I’ll protect you.”

“Ah, my knightly Gryffindor.”

Harry smiled. “T’was the night before Christmas, and all through the house…”

“You’re an idiot,” Draco said, rolling his eyes, but he pulled Harry in, their lips coming together in the dark. Slowly, they tumbled deeper into the kiss, Draco’s hands moving to grab fistfuls of hair, Harry tugging on Draco’s bottom lip. They fell into each other with a dark desperation as thick snowflakes began to fall outside their window. 

-x-

Harry woke to a brumal sunlight filtering through Draco’s bedroom window—and it was Draco’s bedroom; silver and green accents were running rampant, a large bookshelf requisitioning half the room with colourful spines. Harry knew that of the three doors, one led to a private bathroom, one a walk-in closet, and the last to a cold and unsympathetic manor.

Draco lay sleeping beside him, pale chest rising and falling steadily, his silvery scars catching Harry’s attention as they always did. He found it hard not to stare; the way they crisscrossed Draco’s chest and back, only slightly raised, and the memories that began to emerge if Harry looked too long; the pattern of slashes imprinting themselves in red behind his eyelids.

Harry reached for his glasses on the bedside table just as Draco moaned slightly and turned over, opening his eyes. He gave Harry a simpering grin, one that Harry had to quell with a kiss.

“Watch your mouth, you,” Harry said, but his eyes were all playfulness.

“I suppose we ought to have breakfast,” Draco hummed.

“Do we have to?” Harry asked, pulling Draco towards him. “I’m fine right here.”

Harry’s tongue flitted across Draco’s lips, teasing, but Draco pushed him back, face serious.

“We’re expected.”

“Your parents?”

Draco nodded, and Harry was momentarily distracted by Draco’s bare arse as he huffed and got out from under the covers. Harry’s eyes followed hungrily as Draco moved to the closet.

“Get that grin off your face,” Draco said, throwing a discarded shirt in Harry’s direction. Now it was Harry’s turn to bemoan the cold outside the covers, and he hurried to Draco’s side, nipping at his ear.

“Try these on, you scoundrel,” Draco laughed, shoving clothes into Harry’s arms as Draco himself got ready for the day. Harry pulled on each piece reluctantly, until he found himself standing in front of Draco’s full-length mirror in a green crewneck. 

“It’s very Slytherin,” Draco mused, “and it brings out your eyes.”

“It’s just breakfast.”

“It’s not just breakfast,” Draco said with an eyeroll, “it’s Christmas Eve breakfast with my parents.”

Harry frowned, “I liked the red patterned one.”

“But it’s… Darling,” Draco said, cupping Harry’s face, putting on his best pleading eyes, “It’s so _Gryffindor_.” 

“I _am_ a Gryffindor,” Harry replied, unmoved.

Draco scowled and stepped back, his warmth retracted, but threw the other shirt at Harry. “It’s maroon, by the way.” 

Harry grunted as Draco pulled on a black turtleneck before mussing his blond hair in all the right ways. Harry wanted to press the git up against the mirror, to watch Draco see himself being fucked and turned into a begging mess. Harry could already picture Draco’s flushed face, the small gasps and moans escaping as he watched Harry stroke his cock as he pounded into him. Harry felt arousal stir in his stomach, but he shoved it down. Sometimes sex could ease a moment, but Draco was too wound up and it wouldn’t do any good.

And, much to Harry’s dismay, he later found himself not shagging Draco, but sitting in the Malfoy’s overly large dining room, the table stretching out unnecessarily before them. Narcissa and Lucius were both dressed in shades of black and green, the lace collar of Narcissa’s dress crawling up her neck and flowering out underneath her chin. Both maintained an icy indifference that even the holly and garlands lining the room couldn’t warm. In fact, the holiday decorations themselves were all frosted; the room glittered with icicles, silver baubles, and snow-white wreaths.

Harry had overestimated his ability to return here. Last night they had gotten to the manor late and taken tea in their rooms, but in the harsh winter light the marbled dining room sent a sharp pain through his skull. Draco had stopped gripping his thigh once the eggs benedict had been set before them, but Harry almost wished he hadn’t, the absence of touch causing a chill to settle in his bones.

“So, Harry…” Lucius said as he turned to look at him, and Harry nearly choked.

“Yes, Lucius- Er, Mr. Malfoy?” Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Draco’s face turn even paler than normal.

“The latest article in The Prophet painted quite an _interesting_ portrait of you.”

Tension cloaked the table like a thick layer of dust—both Draco and Narcissa seemed to be biting their tongues, wanting to restrain their respective partners, but Harry wasn’t going to cause trouble this early. He had sat through conversations with the Malfoys before; this was nothing new.

“They’ve never liked me,” Harry shrugged.

“I’m afraid not,” Lucius sniffed, “though I can’t help but wonder…” He raised an eyebrow, as if Harry should know exactly what he was alluding to. The truth was that Harry did; The Prophet had caught wind of his relationship with Draco recently. They had tried so hard to keep it under wraps, only telling their closest friends and family, but it was the holidays—everyone was craving a cozy romantic tale, so the prophet had ambushed familiar targets, hoping for updates on their relationships.

Harry and Draco had been shopping for Draco’s parents—a rare outing in public—and had bumped into Ginny and Neville, who had been shopping for Luna. Of course, The Prophet didn’t care about any of that; _Harry Potter’s Christmas Picks: Boy Who Lived Choosing the Best Lover for the Holidays!_ , the headlines had said. Not, _young wizards just trying to find love again after a hopeless childhood, finally connect with partners who understand their pain_ , not _unlikely friends meet and remember the spirit of the holidays, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter have nice chat with Ginny Weasley and husband Neville, what a surprise!_ , but an attempt to create romance between himself and Ginny where it had faded long ago.

Draco had been livid at how belittling the article was, falling into a Malfoy-esque rage about the audacity of Wizarding and British papers alike. One would have thought after the war, papers would be more careful about their information, and that people would be fed-up with the pulp of The Prophet, but it was never that easy. Harry had known people would take it to heart, thinking he was leading Draco on in typical “bisexual fashion,” and he should have known Lucius would be one of them. 

“Ginny and Neville are very happy together,” Draco said, giving his father a strained look.

“I have no qualms with _their_ relationship,” Lucius said, and Draco’s cheeks flushed.

“Shall we take our tea in the other room?” Narcissa asked, her voice carrying a false airiness. 

Harry gave her a grateful smile, which she did not return.

-x-

The Christmas tree in the Malfoy’s front parlour was formidable. The tips of the evergreen were magically frosted, the silver and gold baubles and bows perfectly spaced, and wizarding fairy lights hovered between the branches. If Harry peered closely, they seemed to tinkle with laughter. Somehow, the tree was able to create an aura of warmth despite the heavy-lidded curtains covering the windows and the black and silver settees, although the peaceful Christmas piano might have helped. Beneath the tree were a surprisingly large amount of Christmas presents; silver ribbons pristinely curled, wrapping paper only creased where it should be.

“They’re for our guests,” Narcissa said, giving Harry a thin smile. 

“For our valued guests,” Lucius quipped, and Harry noticed Draco’s lip curling in annoyance.

They all sat on the plump chairs, nearly sinking into their inky blackness. No one spoke as they sipped their tea, but every time Harry glanced over at Draco, he had a hard and pensive look. He had a way of getting quieter and quieter as his anger festered, in a way that made it harder for Harry to figure out what type of storm was brewing. He was beginning to doubt their ability to make it through their visit. 

“What will you two be wearing tonight?” Narcissa asked, bringing their prolonged silence to an end. Lucius had remained sitting stiffly, despite the plush nature of the chairs, and his posture only became more rigid at the prospect of conversation.

“If I tell you, my entrance will be ruined,” Draco hummed. Narcissa gave Harry a pointed look, suddenly ready to play at being friends. Harry just shrugged.

“Even I don’t know what he’s wearing. I thought we were just wearing some nice robes.”

Draco rolled his eyes, patting Harry’s knee. “You don’t date Draco Malfoy and wear ‘some nice robes.’”

Lucius’ expression darkened, and Draco’s hand tightened on Harry’s leg, nails digging through his slacks.

Narcissa set her teacup down a little too forcefully. “Presents?” She waved her wand, and into Draco and Harry’s laps fell two wrapped gifts, one noticeably smaller than the other. A tense unwrap revealed they had both been given scarves, although Draco’s looked and felt of higher quality.

Harry had been prepared for this. He conjured two very small parcels that were outwardly unassuming; just brown paper boxes with a smattering of burned in stars and a fancy W. Lucius held his as if it might contain something life-threatening; Narcissa held hers only slightly less delicately.

“It won’t bite,” Harry said at an attempt at humour, ignoring the biting look Draco was currently giving him. He hadn’t wanted to ruin the surprise.

-x-

_Harry wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck; the December chill had settled deep into his bones. He was on an unassuming street in North London, and the ice crunched under his boots as he made his way down, each shop adorned in holiday cheer. Outwardly, the shop Harry was looking for was no different than the rest. It was a small, used bookshop with a wreath on the door, but as he crossed the threshold and a bell chimed, the shop changed entirely._

_He wound his way through shelves upon shelves that held, not books, but an immeasurable number of items. There were orbs that seemed to swirl with purple wind, a collection of sleeping sneak-o-scopes, glittering crystals, and—in one corner—a suit of armor that seemed to crackle with energy. Unlike Borgin and Burkes, the air of this shop was more quirky than sinister. Overhead, astronomical diagrams seemed to be rotating, and flying objects made their way between the shelves: enchanted paper airplanes, mechanical birds, and miniature dragons much like Harry’s own Hungarian Horntail. He was just about to pick up a peculiar looking quill when a deep voice spoke behind him._

_"_ _Can I help you with anything?”_

_Harry turned around. A brown-skinned woman in navy blue robes was standing with her hands clasped, the corners of her eyes crinkling. Constellations were sewn in gold thread over her robes, shimmering magically as if catching a non-existent light._

_“Erm, I’m looking for a Christmas present…”_

_“Lovely! Who are you shopping for?”_

_“My boyfriend’s parents.”_

_Something in her dark eyes glinted, “Ah, always a difficult one. Do you have anything in mind?”_

_Harry shook his head; he had scoured nearly every shop in Wizarding London and wasn’t any closer to figuring out what to get them. He was long past caring about what Lucius or Narcissa thought of what he did, but at the same time, a part of him still craved their acceptance. Whenever he saw Neville or Luna with Mr. And Mrs. Weasley, all warm light and smiles, his heart twisted a little._

_“Maybe if you tell me a bit about them, I can help you, I have a bit of a…” she waved her hand, looking for the right word, “way of knowing what someone needs.”_

_“Well they’re purebloods… proper, high-strung. They don’t like me.” Harry shrugged. “They’re well-off; I don’t know what I could possibly give them that they don’t already have.”_

_“You came to the right place,” the witch smiled. “There are many things here that no one else would have.” She began walking deeper into the shop; Harry hurried to catch up as she threatened to be swallowed by the shelves. “I think I have something for you.”_

_They ended up near the storefront window, which Harry suspected was not quite aligned with the outside world. The entire shop, he suspected, was magically enlarged, and probably stretched on farther than he could imagine._

_The witch went behind a front counter and pulled out an unassuming black trunk. Setting it down, she waved off the dust. From beneath her robes, she precured an ornate silver key, and when she lifted open the lid of the trunk, it expanded into three levels—it was a jewellery box with trays of black cushions, each holding a unique, hand-crafted ring. There were different shapes and sizes, materials ranging from finely spun gold to wood-like carvings, gawdy jewels, swirling spells, ones with rocks that seemed to hover around the band, and, in the corner, a ring that appeared to be made of bone._

_“This is my collection—each ring handcrafted, imbued with magic.” She pointed to a ring with a smooth black band, bright white crystals with razor-sharp edges pointing from the top. The cushion around it glittered, and when Harry reached forward, he realized it was frost._

_“Helps the wearer harness winter elemental magic.”_

_“What about that one?” Harry asked, pointing to the ring that seemed to have bones strapped to it with red twine. Inside the band there was a fine red engraving in symbols that Harry had never seen before._

_The witch grinned, her eyes glimmering; “it belonged to Balzar, but he didn’t make it. Before him, the ownership is a mystery. I have yet to find out who created it.”_

_“Balzar?”_

_“An ancient Necromancer. They say his Inferi were unstoppable.”_

_Harry wondered how he had never heard that name before, but then, he had never paid attention in History of Magic._

_"So you think there’s something here for me?”_

_“Two rings.” She reached deep into the box, and suddenly Harry smelled roses. She held a ring delicately between her fingers. It had a pearlescent sheen; Harry couldn’t tell if it was pink, blue, or white—or perhaps it was all three. The head of the ring looked like a closed bud; its outer petals splayed lazily around it. When the witch passed it to him, he was surprised to feel firm metal—the flower had looked so perfectly alive._

_“You can try it on,” the witch winked, “each of these rings is enchanted to fit the wearer.”_

_When Harry slipped it onto his finger, it immediately softened. The intricate band—which looked like pearly roots—tightened around his index finger, and the bud of the flower yawned open. It slowly breathed out a light pink smoke, the scent of roses growing stronger._

_“It’s a perfume ring—and you can change the scent with a simple spell.”_

_"It’s gorgeous,” Harry said, “his mother will love it.”_

_“It’s one of a kind,” the witch hummed. “Simple and elegant, yet the spell work is complicated. It takes a powerful witch or wizard to create an enchanted ring.”_

_Harry handed it back to her, and she placed it into a ring case, tucking it into a simple brown box. “For your next gift,” she said, reaching again into the jewellery box, “this might work.”_

_She handed him another ring, this one a thicker band, and as Harry looked closer, it was as if an ocean was trapped in glass. Clear blue water ran in a circle, bubbling and weaving throughout the band—if he squinted, he thought he almost saw weeds or fish among the waves._

_"Try it on,” she nodded, and Harry slipped it onto his finger. The water immediately changed; it became dark, running black as the Great Lake._

_“What happened?”_

_“The water reflects the wearer,” the witch said, and she didn’t elaborate further. She took the ring and packaged it in the same way. She pulled out her wand and burned a sharp W into the boxes, surrounded by a spattering of stars, and then tied a neat silver bow. She showed Harry a price tag and he just nodded, and they tapped wands. The two boxes vanished, and in Harry’s vault at Gringotts, coins would be disappearing without interference: a transferring of merchandise. Harry barely acknowledged the exchange; he was still peering into the many layers of the jewellery box._

_“Is there something else I can help you with?” the witch asked._

_“Erm, well—I still haven’t gotten anything for my boyfriend.”_

_“Ah, perhaps even harder than shopping for parents.”_

_“Do you think you could help me find something?” Harry asked. He didn’t want to take up more of her time, but no one else had come in since he got here… and he was bloody desperate. “He can be cold like his parents, but he feels more than he lets on. He’s a bit of a brat too, but—“_

_The witch raised her hand, and Harry stopped sheepishly. “You won’t find anything for him here.”_

_“How do you—“_

_“Because you_ won’t, _Mr. Potter,” her eyes once again gaining that knowing, otherworldly glint. “I know what you’re looking for. It’s not here. You could buy any item from my shop and your boyfriend would be pleased, but it won’t be what either of you wants.”_

_“What is it that I want?” Harry asked, frustration beginning to broil at her convoluted words._

_The witch simply shrugged, “it's not here.”_

_Harry was about to thank her angrily and leave, when she continued. “But I think I know where you can find it.” She waved her wand, and suddenly Harry felt a piece of paper clenched in his hand. “The journey is far, but their craftsmanship is worth it. The paper will disappear once you read it. I don’t give this address out to just anyone, Mr. Potter.”_

_“They? How many are there?”_

_“Just one.” The witch smiled, and Harry nodded._

_“Got it. Thank you for everything.”_

_“It’s been my pleasure,” she said, closing the chest with a snap of her wand. “And by the way, they specialize in memory magic.”_

_Harry left the shop with the paper held tight in his fist, the unseen letters threatening to burn themselves into his palm._

-x-

_Harry landed on the frozen ground and swung his broom over his shoulder. In the distance, high peaks capped in snow cut off the skyline. The dead grass and straggling hills gave the place a desolate appearance, but in the middle of the clearing, a stone cottage sat sleepily, smoke puffing out of the chimney. The witch had said that the journey would be long, so Harry had been surprised to find himself back in Scotland. It was strange to think that Hogwarts was somewhere around here, masked in the highlands just as this cottage was. Harry had taken an official portkey to get as close as he could before flying the rest of the way. It had been the most wondrous thing—just flying over fields and mountains and sheep, the familiar wind in his hair, the freedom of it; foolishly, he had kept his eyes open for the spires of Hogwarts, but of course he never saw them._

_He ran a hand through his hair as he came upon the cottage, smoothing down his coat and hoping he didn’t look too dishevelled. Yet before he could knock, the wooden door swung open. A tall, lanky wix stood there, a small smile pulling on their sunken eyes._

_“I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Potter.” The wix said, ushering him in. With their long white hair, dark skin, and unassuming brown robes, they were both ageless and ancient all at once. Harry followed them nervously into the small cottage, which surprisingly was the same size as its exterior. The kitchenette was filled with dried herbs and flowers, the small round table strewn with papers. The wix ushered him down a narrow staircase, and Harry descended into what seemed to be a combination of library and workshop. Rows of bookshelves were embedded into the walls, and in the middle of the room was a large work table with different scales and tools. Warmly lit orbs hovered over the table and near the books, illuminating what needed to be seen._

_“How did you know I was coming?”_

_“An esteemed colleague.”_

_“What do you do out here?”_

_“I am a researcher first; a craftsperson second.”_

_“She said you specialised in memory magic…”_

_“I do,” the wix said, sitting down with a sigh at their work table. After a moment they looked back up. “Take a seat, Mr. Potter.”_

_Harry sat awkwardly as the wix began picking up bits and pieces._

_“Uhm, if you don’t mind my asking—“_

_“I cannot tell you how I knew you were coming, Mr. Potter. Magic runs through the earth beyond your wildest imagination, if only you know how to harness it.”_

_Harry wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he sat and watched the wix work. Their face was wrinkled in strange ways; Harry wouldn’t have been able to pin their age if he tried._

_“Erm, well yes, if you don’t mind me asking, but how do you and your, uhm, colleague know so many… things?” Harry winced at how idiotic he sounded, but the wix laughed; a deep, hearty laugh._

_"Legilimens, seers, and their ilk are not considered highly employable,” they said. “We often turn to unique professions to bide time.”_

_“You’re a seer?”_

_The wix just shrugged, the tip of their wand beginning to glow_ _. They_ _delicately levitated the pieces together—tarnished silver spirals wrapping themselves around a pale blue crystal, fusing together with the metal band. It was simple yet gorgeous, a hint of the otherworldly in the circling inscriptions. The wix held it up, piercing amber eyes picking apart their own work._

_“I was perfecting this for years before I finally managed,” they said, and Harry noticed that they were wearing a similarly fashioned ring, white scars crisscrossing the back of their hand. “Seems fitting my second attempt should go to you.”_

_How had Harry stumbled into one strange shop and ended up here? It was as if he had joined some sort of fantasy quest—one that he had never heard of until now, and certainly had no right to be a part of._

_“I’m confused about why I’m here,” Harry started. “There must be hundreds of more powerful wizards who want that ring? And here I don’t even know your name.” A cool, magical wind seemed to rush through the basement, and the wix straightened up, their joints cracking._

_“Do you believe in destiny, Mr. Potter?”_

_“Er... well, I thought I did once; now I’m not sure.”_

_“Perhaps it was destiny that you walked into my colleague’s emporium, and perhaps it was destiny that you are here now. I see that scar on your forehead and I know who you are, yet I see these scars on my own hand, and I do not know who I am.” Their eyes narrowed. “I specialize in memory magic because I do not know my own name. Sometimes things happen, for no apparent reason, and we are all the better for it. Something happened to me, and now I have no legacy—you will take this ring, and bring my legacy to the outside world. I have chosen you to appreciate my work.” They paused, watching the ring hover over the table. “I may not be quite human, but I do have a human desire to see my craftsmanship appreciated. For someone to recognize my talent.”_

_Once again Harry found himself at a loss for words. He had thought destiny had decided to stop bothering him long ago, and yet now he was in Scotland, talking to someone who seemed more wizened and more magical than even Dumledore had seemed to an innocent and naive eleven-year-old Harry._

_“You can store a minute of memory within this ring—no more, no less.”_

_“You...store a memory?”_

_“And the wizard who it is intended for can delve into that memory once a day.”_

_“But it doesn’t take my memory, does it?”_

_“It is quite different to a pensieve.”_

_“How do I put the memory, uhm, in?”_

_“The spell engraved here both inserts the memory, and, after, allows you to experience it. You have one chance.”_

_Harry took the ring delicately, a mysterious lamp light flickering. Down in the earth, time seemed to have no meaning, and he stared at the ring for what felt like hours, memories like candlelight moving through his mind._

_His first kiss with Draco, hot, ragged, and desperate, and then their real first kiss, hesitant and slow, but still as desperate, as needing. The first time Draco had crashed on his couch in London, and how Harry had woken in the night to screams, how he had shushed and comforted Draco back into sleep. They hadn’t talked for weeks after that. Their first real date, the awkwardness, how Draco had kept snapping at him, and how that night he had broken down in tears over drinks apologizing. Their first fight, the first time they danced together, the first time Harry had seen Draco’s scars, the first time Draco had seen his. The firsts, seconds, thirds, fourths, awkward fumblings, desolate nights, the darkness that sometimes crept up on them unknowingly when they would both suddenly tumbl into depression, unsure how to help the other when they were both feeling alone. Sometimes, one of them would try to be the bigger person; other times, they would be alone together_ _—_ _war ravaged, but together._

_Harry took a deep breath; he wasn’t sure he believed in destiny. At his darkest he hadn’t even believed in love, and yet love had believed in him—brought Draco back into his life, time and time again. He twirled the ring around his fingers, “Capturi Memoria.”_

_The ring began to hum, the crystal glowing a dark blue as it started to melt, dripping onto Harry’s palm. A spiral of silver liquid began winding itself around his hand; he felt very warm, and very cold, all at once._

-x-

“This is…” Narcissa began, “this is very beautiful, Harry.” Slipping the ring onto her pale hand, the blossom unfolding. “Magnolia…” She murmured. 

Lucius held the ring as if it might burn him, yet the clear water moved languidly. 

“Try it on, Lucius.” Narcissa said, voice strained. He slipped the ring onto his finger, distaste morphing into disgust as the clear water turned muddy. He looked at it in horror until finally pulling it off, clenching it in his fist, knuckles white.

“Is this a joke?” He hissed, standing up and looming over Harry.

“No,” Harry said defiantly, “it’s a gift.”

“Where did you find this?” He asked, voice low and threatening.

“I bought it from a witch in North London…” Harry looked at Draco for support, but he was staring at his father, face unreadable.

“I should never have let you into my home—“

“Lucius—” Narcissa began, but he cut her off with a slicing of his hand.

“No, Narcissa, it needs to be said. You have been nothing but a _stain_ on this family, Harry Potter. Did you think you could pacify us with gifts? We are purebloods; we are one of the richest families in Wizarding Britain, if not Britain entirely.”

 _Were_ , Harry thought. _Were one of the richest_.

“This platitude means nothing, Mr. Potter,” Lucius said, raising his fist, and it seemed so tight that Harry wondered the ring didn’t cut into his palm. “Do not think that just because you are with my son, that you will mean anything more to me than before. My _sincerest_ apologies that you lost your family, but you will not find one here.”

“Father—“

“Lucius—“

Draco and Narcissa said at the same time. Lucius’ breathing was heavy with agitation; Harry avoided his gaze, instead still marveling at how tightly Lucius’ fist seems to be clenched, feeling his own palm tingling. He remembered how Vernon or Petunia use to lay into him like this; his body felt a little similar to back then—distant and fuzzy.

“I will not sit in my own home and be made a fool of by this _scoundrel_.”

Draco stood up then too. “Harry isn’t a ‘scoundrel’—“

Lucius continued as if Draco hadn’t spoken at all, never moving his eyes from where Harry sat. “If you must do us the dishonour of coming to the ball, you would be wise to stay away from me.” He spat as he strode out of the room, robes whipping behind him.

Narcissa stood up, sat down, and then stood up again, pulling the ring off her finger and rushing after her husband.

“This is so typical,” Draco seethed, until his brow began to crumple, his lips drawn into a thin line. He looked so like his mother then, worried and tense. Harry attempted to draw him into his arms, but he was batted away. 

“I’m sorry. It’s my fault, Draco.” 

“It’s not—my father refuses to be reasoned with.” 

“I didn’t really mean to give him a ring like that. I wanted him to like me,” Harry said, “just a little bit.”

“Of course you did,” Draco sniffed, his anger coming out of nowhere, hitting him in earnest. “You’re so bloody brilliant, righteous and loving. You could never hate anyone.”

“Draco, that’s not—“

“Come off it, you chivalrous prick. I told you not to get them anything.”

“If you knew what I did to find those gifts—“

“It doesn’t matter. They still hate you; they still hate me.”

“They don’t hate you,” Harry replied gently.

“They do!” Draco said, and then he was crying again, pale cheeks flushed, eyes red. “They do…”

This time when Harry drew him into his arms it was easy, Draco coming forward like a ragdoll, burying his face in Harry’s shoulder. Harry marvelled sometimes at how perfectly they fit together, and they stood like that, breathing each other in, finding comfort in shared warmth.

“Dance with me,” Harry said after a moment, quietly. “I need all the practice I can get.”

So they stood like that for a while, in each other's arms, a haze of memory clinging to their shoulders as they slow-stepped around the room.

-x-

“I can’t do this, Harry.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I bloody can’t, everyone will be there.”

Harry sighed from his position on the bed, Draco was in the closet no doubt pulling clothes off his hangers in an attempt to fashion an outfit. Of course, Draco had had his outfit planned for weeks; it was only now, in the throes of anxiety, that he felt it wasn’t good enough.

Harry flipped the page of the book he was reading _—_ something about broomstick craft that he had pulled off Draco’s shelf.

“Are you going to help me at all?” Draco whined, and Harry closed his book with a sigh.

“Yes, Draco?”

“Which suits me better?” He asked, holding up two silk shirts that seemed nearly identical.

“The left.”

“ _Really_?” Draco asked, “It's so gaudy.”

“Honestly, Draco? I don’t see how it’s any different from the right.”

“It’s extremely different, you git.”

“You’re right,” Harry nodded evenly as he inched towards his book. Draco’s eyes narrowed as he caught the movement. 

“How can you be reading right now? The ball is in less than an hour.”

“Guests might start arriving in less than an hour, that doesn’t mean we have to. Besides, I thought we both knew what we were wearing already?”

“It doesn’t fit properly anymore.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“What do you want me to say, Draco?”

“Bloody anything!”

His thoughts couldn’t catch up with his mouth, so Harry said nothing at all.

“I take it back, you always say the wrong thing.” 

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You don’t mean that.”

“Stop acting like you know what I do and don’t mean,” Draco hissed. “You may be the Chosen One, but you’re also a stupid git who never says the right thing.”

Harry was never sure how to respond when Draco got like this. Insults spilled from his lips like venom. He knew that if he didn’t reply, Draco would work himself up, but he always found himself just standing there—body not feeling like his own, mouth and mind unable to cooperate. 

“No, you know what—” Draco said, flinging the clothes to the floor and stomping up to Harry. “I hate you.”

“You don’t hate me,” Harry said softly, and he knew Draco didn’t, but his heart always crumpled a bit.

“I do, and you hate me too! We hate each other, isn’t it lovely?” Draco spat, and Harry winced.

“No, it’s not lovely, Draco.”

“Stop being so calm! I really do hate you.”

They were nose to nose now, Draco’s breath setting Harry’s skin alight.

“Fine,” Harry said. His hands were tingling now, and he still didn’t know what to say. The words had lodged in his throat. Draco’s eyes were liquid silver—hot and angry and suffocating. Until, suddenly, Draco stepped back—striding over to one of the racks—and pulled, until nearly every hanger was on the ground. He pulled and pulled, clothes and socks and ties; everything was on the ground, everything was being ripped to shreds. Harry wanted to be angry, to be frustrated and annoyed that Draco was acting like a petulant child, but when Harry woke up grieving, Draco was always there to comfort him. Harry wrapped his arms around Draco’s waist, grabbing onto his wrists.

“It’s okay, Draco.” He whispered, and for a moment the anger bubbled, Draco’s fists clenched tightly—half-moon nail marks in his palm. Then he was in Harry’s arms, and they were in Draco’s bed, and finally they both settled into a shaky calm. 

“I _hate_ that I do this,” Draco said, as if his throat was aching with promise. “I don’t mean it, my heart just feels so… twisted. I don’t hate you.”

“That’s good, because I don’t hate you either.” 

“I can’t believe you put up with me,” Draco mumbled.

“Really? Because I thought I was pretty insufferable.”

“I’m the worst—“

“Draco,” Harry said, tone serious, “it’s the holidays with your parents; of course you’re more tense than me. Remember how angry and upset I was after our first dinner at the Weasley’s?”

Draco sniffed, “you stormed out on all of them—and almost tore your office apart.”

“I did, didn’t I? I guess neither of us is perfect.”

“I suppose,” Draco hiccupped.

“Now, are you going to wear that outfit we planned? Because it makes your arse look amazing.”

-x-

“Ready?” Harry whispered, Draco’s steps faltering as they came upon the ballroom. Draco nodded curtly, not trusting his voice to hold, and they stepped into a silver and gold blur. 

Draco entered the room with his head held high, his arm linked effortlessly with Harry’s. He had chosen a deep green dress robe with a stiff, upturned collar. It had long, finely meshed sleeves that folded around Draco’s arms, opaque cuffs encircled in thin gold chains. The almost-silken shirt was tucked effortlessly into high-waisted black pants, another thin gold chain hanging loosely from his hips. The crystal light of the ballroom caught the embroidery that travelled up to his collar, a hidden ophidian pattern. From his swept blond hair to the chiseled black shoes, he was every inch an aristocrat.

Heads turned as they walked into the ballroom, and Harry did his best to be every bit the knight that Draco needed. In the dashing dress-robes Draco had chosen for him, it wasn’t very difficult: plain black, closed in the center. Draco had accented the collar of Harry’s white undershirt with a short silver charm necklace, from the middle of which hung the face of a lion, bookended by two lightning bolts. Their outfits were both unique, yet complementary; Draco looking every bit as gorgeous—decidedly more so in Harry’s opinion—as anyone else at the event. 

Cold eyes scanned the couple, a few murmurs rumbling across the room. Neither man acknowledged them, nodding to the guests closest to the entrance, as silver champagne tray glided up magically next to them.

“I don’t reckon I know anyone here,” Harry mused, plucking a drink in what he hoped was a suave manner. Witches and wizards in varying levels of dress stood in small groups, drinks held daintily, prim hands covering smiles, whispers, and glares alike.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Draco grimaced, unlinking his arm from Harry’s, who was choking slightly on the first sip of his drink. 

Blaise Zabini was walking towards them in magnificent mahogany dress-robes, smiling smugly. Harry hadn’t seen him since Pansy’s birthday a few years ago, but he remained effortlessly handsome, a silver stud in one ear, cheekbones high and eyes slanted.

“Draco, Potter.” Blaise nodded, eyes narrowing.

“Blaise.” 

“Zabini.”

“It’s been a moment,” he said, twirling his champagne flute. “I heard a rumour you were attending.”

“It _is_ the _Malfoy_ Christmas Eve ball,” Draco replied dryly.

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Well of course, Draco, but we all know Potter is a point of contention.”

“Aren’t we a bit old for last names?” Harry asked sardonically, with what he hoped was an _I’m right here_ sort of smile. 

“On the contrary, don’t you think it makes everything feel more dramatic?”

“I didn’t realise that was a good thing,” Harry scoffed.

“And yet you’re so prone to theatrics.”

“Where’s your date, Blaise? Why don’t you go bother them?”

He inclined his head at a silver-haired woman a few feet away; she gave Blaise a coquettish smile before returning to her conversation. She looked nearly twenty years older than Blaise, though remained statuesquely beautiful, with similarly high cheekbones and elegant white dress-robes. 

“Taking after your mother then, Blaise?” Harry asked, Draco breathing in sharply.

Blaise opened his mouth as if to quip-back, but then his dark eyes focused behind them. “It seems the villainess has arrived.”

Both Harry and Draco turned as Pansy Parkinson swept into the room alone, wearing lavish dress robes and a dark green suit, her fingers sheathed in rings, nails painted black. She spotted them immediately, clasping her hands together in faux excitement.

“Darlings,” she said, kissing everyone on the cheek, including Harry. “Lovely to see you.”

“Pansy,” Blaise intoned, “no date tonight?” 

“No. Unlike you, I don’t require company at all hours,” she made a show of examining her nail-polish. “Besides, it’s terribly difficult to find someone worthy of hanging off my arm.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “You’re letting modelling get to your head.”

“I do have a beautiful head,” she simpered. “Who else is here?” 

“We hadn’t had time to make the rounds,” Draco said, “before Blaise accosted us.”

Blaise’s eyes narrowed, but he avoided the accusation in favour of answering Pansy. “Daphne and Astoria are here, along with Theo.”

“Seems you’re the only Gryffindor, Potter,” Pansy sighed, patting his hand. “So sorry for your loss.”

“I wouldn’t want any of them put through this,” Harry laughed. Draco took a frustrated sip of champagne, obviously not pleased with Harry’s behaviour.

In the time since they had arrived, the invisible orchestra had begun playing, their lofty music serenading the room. Harry had yet to see Lucius or Narcissa, although they had to be here somewhere, and as couples made their way onto the dance floor, it became harder to tell the masses of people apart.

“Well! I should escort the lady,” Blaise nodded, heading towards his date. Harry observed Draco watching the pair walk out to the dance floor, the lightness of her step, the confidence in his laugh. It filled Draco with a mixture of repulsion and envy. He wanted what they had—he wanted to walk onto the dance floor and know that the only heads turning were ones in awe of their attractiveness as a couple, to be completely self-assured. At the same time, self-loathing churned in his gut. He loved who he was, he loved what he had; envy had no place settling its hand over his heart. His disposition darkened as the two feelings warred; the glass of champagne in his hand was beginning to feel very breakable—the glass could pierce his skin, send crimson drops onto people’s shoes and skirts. He took a less than classy sip; the bubbles burned his throat.

“You look positively terrifying,” Pansy said; it was impossible to tell whether insult or comfort danced on her lips. “Just go dance, instead of pointing daggers.”

Harry gave Draco a glance, asking for permission, and when Draco simply nodded, he held out his arm, leading them onto the dance floor. They both found a floating tray on which to deposit their drinks and soon began to twirl quietly amongst the other couples. Occasionally, Harry would entertain the vision of going to the Yule Ball with Draco, how he might have enjoyed himself more. But dwelling on the past often lead to unpleasantness; blood and tears and flames, a ghostlike grip on his sides. He was content to look into Draco’s eyes, examine his face as he attempted to commit those features to memory. A young wizard glared over Draco’s shoulder, and Harry steered them away.

“Do you think people are looking at us?” Draco asked, biting his lip.

“Probably,” Harry said, hoping someone else hadn’t given Draco a foul look. “Let’s hope I don’t step on your toes.”

Draco laughed, and oh how Harry loved that sound. He still remembered the first time he had heard it in years, how at that moment he had wanted to be the reason Draco laughed forever. 

“You’re giving me that look,” Draco smirked. “Your sappy Gryffindor look.”

“But I _am_ a sappy Gryffindor,” Harry smiled, Draco rolling his eyes in mock exasperation.

“Well, thank you for being here tonight,” he said, as a faster waltz began to play.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Now Harry, we both know that’s not true,” Draco said, but his steps faltered as someone brushed up against him.

“Maybe it’s not me we have to worry about,” Harry said, glaring at the witch who had already spun out of reach. Dresses whirled as witches and wizards alike spun around the room, Harry worked to keep up with the steps, his brow furrowed in concentration. He noticed the same young wizard stepping his date towards them, and Harry attempted to maneuver Draco out of the way, sending them both wobbling.

“Watch it,” Draco hissed. “We have a presentation to uphold, you know.”

“I know,” Harry said through gritted teeth, it wasn’t his fault. “When will this bloody song be over?”

“Soon,” Draco sighed, as they turned once more. The multiple string instruments hanging in the air began to play with more intensity, the music swelling as the bows moved of their own accord, no musicians in sight.

Suddenly, the same witch that had brushed Draco was next to them, her auburn hair pulled back in a wavy bun, her green eyes venomous. “ _Perverts_ ,” she said under her breath, “you don’t belong here.”

Harry let go of Draco, moving for his wand, and the witch’s eyes went wide.

“Stop, Harry,” Draco said, grabbing Harry’s arm and pulling him off the dancefloor. “You’re making a scene.”

“A scene? She just called us perverts!”

“Yes, and that’s pure-blood society for you,” Draco said, but his voice trembled. The witch was lead away by her partner as she clutched at his robes.

“So ready to play the victim,” Harry spat, anger bubbling under his skin.

“You need to stop,” Draco said. “Put your wand away.”

Harry did so, but only because he noticed other people looking their way as the witch whispered to her friends; someone pressed a drink into her hands.

“What in Merlin just happened?” Pansy asked, slinking an arm around Draco’s waist.

“That witch just called us bloody perverts and said we don’t belong here.”

“Really?” Pansy asked, barking out a disbelieving laugh, “you would have thought people would be more subtle now.”

“You would have thought,” Harry growled, “but—“

“Harry, leave it,” Draco said for what felt like the millionth time. Another song had begun to play, but no one danced, instead mingling around the floor. Dinner would be soon. All three noticed Blaise attempting to escape the clutches of his silver-haired date and come over, and Lucius and Narcissa were gliding amongst the guests, making smoothing remarks.

“Oh, Merlin,” Draco whispered; he felt panic begin to crash over him in waves.

“I spy the inquisition,” Pansy laughed bitterly, “good luck to you both.” And with that, she unwound herself from Draco and disappeared. Harry quickly replaced her, as Draco looked like he was about to collapse.

The look on Lucius’ face was terrifying, and Narcissa was whispering to him under her breath.

“We don’t have to deal with this you know,” Harry said angrily, “we could just leave.”

“But—”

“It’s not your job to uphold your parents fucked up moral values, Draco. And it’s not _my_ job to pretend I’m okay with them.”

Draco nearly moaned, once again he was torn in two; to take Harry’s hand and escape the flames or be burned alive. He had taken Harry’s hand before, and he had survived, but sometimes he dreamed that his indecision kept him rooted to the spot, and then—then he burned, engulfed in anguish, seared by regret. 

“We were just verbally assaulted; you’re about to have a panic attack,” Harry turned Draco towards him, bringing their foreheads together. “It’s okay, Draco.”

Draco took a deep, shaky breath, chest tightening. “Merlin, get us out of here.”

Harry needed no extra prodding. He grabbed Draco’s arm and turned on the spot; Lucius and Narcissa were left mouths gaping as the couple apparated away with a crack of energy.

-x-

Harry and Draco landed in the snow, tall pines surrounding them. The cold brought Draco back into the present, his breath coming out in steamy puffs. For a moment he sat dazed, the cold seeping into his trousers, and then he noticed the log cabin; dark brown, with a snow-capped roof and chimney, rainbow Christmas lights strung around the eves and a wreath of holly hanging on the door.

“Where are we?” Draco asked, shivering.

“Merry Christmas Eve?” Harry grinned sheepishly, grabbing Draco’s hands and pulling him up.

“Harry Potter,” Draco said, “is this a shagging cabin?”

“It’s part of your Christmas present!” Harry laughed, as thick snowflakes began to spill from the sky.

“Part?” Draco asked curiously, and then his eyes were growing wide, hands covering his mouth, as Harry got to one knee. The snow was so cold it hurt, but Harry pulled out a green velvet box, opened it to reveal a beautiful silver ring adorned with a light blue crystal. 

Harry had been practicing this speech for nearly a year, and it came out now in a rush as the snowflakes began to make everything glitter.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, we met for the first time in Madame Malkin’s, and if anyone had told me I would end up in love with that stupid blond git, I would have hexed them off their feet. Then we met again on the train to Hogwarts when we both became professors, and I was amazed at the man you had become. I want to say I was smitten at first glance, but it took time for both of us, and I wouldn’t give up any of it. So many times I’ve wished I could bottle up these moments, to play them back to you and prove you’re loved, because sometimes you doubt that fact, and it hurts me nearly as much as I know it hurts you. Draco, we have been gravitating around each other for 17 years, so let's do ourselves a favour and continue to spend every year together, as husbands. You are the love of my life; I wouldn’t want to spend it any other way.”

About halfway through the speech, tears had begun to prickle at the corner of Draco’s eyes, and now he smiled, cheeks pink, eyes bright; “yes, Harry, yes.”

Harry was grinning like a loon, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to control his features, but he slipped the ring onto Draco’s hand and stood up, sweeping him into a kiss.

“There’s one last thing,” Harry mumbled as Draco shivered in his arms, “but maybe we should save it for inside?”

“Please,” Draco said through chattering teeth. Harry waved his wand, unlocking the front door, and once again to light the fireplace. The cabin was one room with a king-sized bed, a small table with an oil lamp, two chairs, and a bookshelf, though an open door appeared to lead to a magically enhanced bathroom. Draco sighed as he took off his soaking shoes, feeling the warmth of the carpet between his toes.

“I think we’re both in need of a warm bath,” Harry said, and they left their discarded clothes by the door, filling up the tub with hot water that bubbled with magic and smelled like candied apples. They both hissed as the heat seared their cold bodies, but they sank into the tub with a sigh, their legs tangling. Harry’s cheeks flushed from the warmth, but also at the feeling of Draco’s legs against his, the thought of fresh linen and a springing mattress waiting for them.

Draco admired the ring from within the bubbles. “What does this mean?” he asked, noticing the inscription on the inside of the band. 

Harry smiled. “That’s the last part of your gift.”

Draco gave Harry a devilishly inquisitive look, but whispered the two words, sinking deeper into the bath. His grey eyes turned a flat, shining blue. Harry knew that memories would be washing over him; ones he had chosen carefully, drunk on destiny.

_First, Draco sitting on the train, his profile illuminated by streaming sunlight, followed by an overwhelming feeling of contentment. Then Harry tracing the silver scars along his ribcage, kissing the faded Dark Mark on his wrist. Dancing alone together, Draco’s thumb tracing the faded words on the back of Harry’s hand. A quiet moment in the front foyer, coats and shirts dropping to the floor, the way Draco felt beneath him, the warmth of contact. Infinitesimal moments, but through it all, a feeling. Something like love, something like loyalty, something like overwhelming gratitude: an explosion of everything._

When Draco resurfaced, crying, Harry slipped over to him. They got out of the bath, and Harry accio’d a pair of towels. He saw to Draco first, rubbing down his arms and chest, kissing down his abdomen as he went, getting onto his knees to pat down his cock, arse, and legs. 

“Harry…”

They fell onto the bed together, and suddenly their bodies were lit with need. They were going to be bloody _married_ , for Merlin’s sake. Flashes of the life they were going to have flickered through Harry’s mind; the fact that he would probably cry at their wedding, the events they would get up to _after_ the wedding, and hundreds of domestic moments. Making breakfast together, reading the paper together, being Mr. and Mr. Potter-bloody-Malfoy. Draco’s hands gripped Harry’s sides, kneading his skin, and Harry nipped at Draco’s lips, tangling their legs together.

“God, Draco,” Harry growled, tugging on his blond hair. Draco let out a quiet moan, and Harry was gone. He dragged his nails over Draco’s chest, catching on those silver scars, and dug his hands into Draco’s hips, bringing him forward. Pre-cum was already swelling at the tip of Draco's hard cock, and Harry used his thumb to rub it around the slit.

“Is there something you want?”

“Please, Harry…”

The logs in the fireplace crackled as Harry leaned down, taking Draco into his mouth, licking up and down the shaft, teasing relentlessly. Harry continued to take the lead, bringing Draco through waves of pleasure as they both worked towards mutual climax.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, coating the world anew; a world that for all its hardships and misgivings, for all the pain and suffering, had a thread of magic running through its center. Not just the magic of wizards, but a subtle sort of magic; of constellations, and Christmas, of enemies to lovers. It was comforting to Harry that somewhere, it would always be snowing; soft and slow, cold—but beautiful. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this gift fic please consider leaving a comment (or kudos)- they are my life blood haha


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